(Untitled)

[hahahohohee]

Title: Go out with a BANG
Characters: EVERYONE
Location: EVERYWHERE
Rating: NC-17 for VIOLENCE
Summary: JOKER AND HIS MINIONS HAVE CEASED THE POPULATION OF MALAISE. Squadala!
Day/Time: Late afternoon/evening

Comments

THE RIGHT HAND STAIRWELL

[fiery_ruin]

Dilandau had been planning this fire since he first walked through the doors. Not for any particular purpose, but because it was habit, to scope a place, looking for air flues, flammable materials, obstacles to the flames.

Stairwells make great chimneys. The heat rises quickly from the flame at the base of the stairs, rushing through any open door, setting alight anything in it's path, spreading the beautiful fire, filling the space with roiling smoke. The process can be sped up by opening a few strategic windows at the bottom so that fresh oxygen can be sucked in, and wedging the fire doors to the corridors, just enough to allow the smoke to seep in without immediately lighting the corridors. After all, Joker didn't want to kill many people.

Dilandau wasn't interested in death either. What drew him, what consumed him, was the flames themselves. He'd partially sated his lust earlier that day, shredding toilet tissue and watching it burn in a toilet, small, bright flames, dancing in the sink, in the mirror, making him feel so alive...

He'd been doing this for as long as he'd been able to strike a match by himself, so knew exactly what to do. The lock on a window at ground level in the stairwell had been jimmied open to draw in the air and provide an escape if need be. Chairs, pillows, bedding and cooking oil had been smuggled throughout the day down the stairs, hidden until the time was right.

Dilandau wouldn't just chuck everything together and light a match. No, he was an artist. He sculpted the flames, made them dance the paths they desired until the ecstatic moment they escaped and lost control. At this moment he was building a pyre with the chairs, draping the cloth along them. The oil was splashed on each landing to provide a flash-point, a mounting column of raging beauty.

Lastly, the finishing touch. A dictionary 'borrowed' from Itachi, thick, dry and oh-so easy to burn. He pulled out pages, balling them up and building long lines and trails and piles for the fire to feed from, before it heated the other objects sufficiently.

He struck the match, a shiver of delight running down his spine at the sight. Lean down, put it to the fire, let it catch before it went too far, caught his fingers, blistered and reddened him with it's fierce kiss.

Just as he'd imagined, the fire caught the paper, crackling with a delicate curl of smoke, spreading and trailing faster. Oh, just to watch it made him feel light, enraptured. Dilandau dimly wondered if this was how some people felt about religion, or sex. He was rocking already in his kneeling position, hard in his pants, his desire leaping with every leap of flame.

There was nothing better than a fire. It would consume the madness, the badness, the idiots and their fear, and leave nothing but clean, white ashes. It was pure, in a way Dilandau could never be. It was his path to glory.